


let's sway (sway through the crowd to an empty space)

by bucketofrice



Category: Figure Skating RPF, Olympics RPF
Genre: F/M, montreal fluff, or a dash of angst?, some melancholy, ttyct fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-07-28 02:16:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16232174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bucketofrice/pseuds/bucketofrice
Summary: From the very start, it has beeneverythingto her.





	let's sway (sway through the crowd to an empty space)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [violetwreaths (gracesvirtue)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracesvirtue/gifts).



> Hellooo! I really don't know how, but for some unknown reason (possibly sheer force of will) I have managed to ignore all the definitively not family-friendly parts of our favourite skating partners' tour for this piece and focus on the sap instead. This is the result.
> 
> Title is "Let's Dance" by David Bowie because I had to.
> 
> Many thanks to [gracesvirtue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracesvirtue/profile) for inspiring this.
> 
> (A note: a _dep_ , or _dépanneur_ is the Québécois equivalent of a convenience store or kiosk.)

**_october 5, 2018 — abbotsford, british columbia_ **

It’s just a moment, thirty stolen seconds in a dark arena hallway, that sends a myriad of thoughts coursing through her brain at a mile a minute.

It’s just a squeeze of the hand, a simple, well-worn gesture, that leaves her skin remembering a thousand prior touches, when the same hands ghosted all over her body—memorizing, cataloguing, worshipping.

It’s just a phrase, whispered in hushed tones, hastily delivered but meant all the same, that sends a shiver up her spine and makes her chest constrict.

“Thank you so much, kiddo. For _everything_.”

She wants to say it back, _needs_ to say it back, but the moment was fleeting to begin with and now it’s gone, replaced by music and chatter and so much adrenaline that she feels it buzzing all the way through the tips of her fingers. A hand squeeze will have to suffice, firm and fast, and then they’re off, all in black and sporting flags and ready to say _thank you_ on a much more public stage.

_Everything_.

It’s the last word that crystallizes in her mind’s eye before she lets the show take over, lets herself get lost in the music and the movement and this thing they created, from start to finish, that they poured their hearts and souls into and finally get to see come to life.

 _Everything_. It’s three syllables and ten letters and she remembers thinking once that twenty-one years couldn’t possibly fit into any one combination of characters. Now, with so much behind them and no limits ahead, she thinks she might have been wrong.

He thanked her for everything and she wants to thank him for the same. Because that’s what this funny little arrangement of theirs truly has been, in its triumphs and downfalls, in the highs and lows—from the very start, it has been _everything_ to her.

 

**_september 27, 2018 — montréal, québec_ **

“Tess?” She glances up from her perch on her sofa and angles her head toward the kitchen. Scott is standing at the counter, two empty wine glasses in front of him. By the look on his face, he definitely just asked her a question and she most definitely missed it.

He quirks an eyebrow and chuckles as he shakes his head. “I was asking if you wanted a glass of red or white?”

“Red, please,” she says and smiles too as he hums a tune while uncorking the bottle. Today was a good day, and they deserve a little celebration. They’re working with Marie-France and Sam on tour choreography, and finally getting to see their floor work translate out onto the ice. Tessa loves this part of the process, loves seeing the bits and pieces they practice over and over again come together to make a whole—finally real and no longer just in her mind’s eye.

She loves seeing Scott in these moments too, loves watching him light up when the pieces start fitting together like a well-crafted puzzle and all the work he puts into each movement pays off. It’s funny, she thinks, that she’s so detail-oriented off-ice and he’s the big-picture guy, but on the ice it’s like they’re the total opposite.

He feels himself into every edge of the blade, every turn and stroke and she does too, don’t get her wrong, but she’s the sweeping, fluid motion that ties it all together while he’s the sharp, collected cut into the ice.

It hits her sometimes, this overwhelming feeling that they really are two parts to a whole, that they complement each other in every way possible. It’s still endlessly funny that the universe decided innumerable times to make them fit—to make them find one another, choose one another and keep choosing each other, countless times, over and over again.

She’s deep in her thoughts once more when she feels the sofa cushion dip down next to her, a familiar weight settling itself at her side. She cocks her head to look at him, all hazel eyes and the softest smile and there’s part of her that’s convinced he’ll melt her with his gaze alone, turn her into a puddle of goo that’ll stain her cream-white sofa.

He hands her a glass of wine with a peck to her cheek and places his own on the coffee table (making sure to use the coaster like she’d told him to so many times) before producing a bar of chocolate from the crook of his elbow.

“I ran down to the dep when you were showering,” he says, sporting a lopsided grin. “Got your favourite.”

It’s Lindt dark chocolate with sea salt and she lights up at the sight. He always did understand her sweet tooth better than anyone else. “We all know you’re a living, breathing rom-com Scott,” she teases as she takes the bar, setting down her own glass on a matching coaster so she can tear open the packaging (carefully). “You don’t have to rub it in.”

He laughs, that full-bodied laugh she loves so much and she just angles herself back on the cushions, infinitely pleased with herself. He leans in and catches her lips in a slow kiss. “I know I don’t have to,” he murmurs into her lips, and the tone of his voice does things to her insides. “But I love you, and I want to, and besides, I needed an excuse to grab some chips that you’ll inevitably tell me are way too unhealthy.”

Now it’s her turn to laugh, because yeah, she’s historically regarded her sweet tooth as more justified than his love of savoury snacks and it is a bit unfair (once, in Canton, they actually sat down and had a full debate about it despite technically not being allowed to eat either, but that was wholly besides the point) though she’s not about to admit it.

As much as she loves chocolate, she loves the feeling of his lips against hers more, loves the way he feels himself into a kiss with every fibre of his being, and soon, the chocolate drops to the ground unopened as Scott hovers above her. He’s everywhere, all at once, and she loses herself in him.

It’s an easy fate, what, with the way he’s mapped her body for decades, like the most careful topographer, making sure to note every dip and swell and curve and freckle. It’s easy to lose herself in his touch, to rake her hands across his back and fist them in his hair as he finds his favourite place in the crook of her neck. It’s an easy fate, yes, but she has chocolate too, and sometimes, her priorities are in the wrong order.

“Scott,” she whines, trying to push him off her. “Sco-ott!” He shifts himself so he’s hovering above her and she wants to laugh at the put-out expression on his face. Coupled with his tousled hair and protruding bottom lip, he looks like a sad puppy.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. But you bought me chocolate, and I want my chocolate.” She fake pouts, sticking out her own bottom lip and she watches as her words compute and he bursts out into laughter, half-dropping back on top of her (but careful not to crush her with his weight). She’s laughing too, because she is being objectively impossible, but it’s _chocolate_.

Chocolate has never let her down in times of need. She’d be remiss to ignore it now.

Eventually, Scott quite ungracefully rolls off the couch and picks up the unopened chocolate from where it dropped on the floor. “M’lady,” he says, winking, as he kneels and presents it to her. “I believe you were searching for this?”

She snorts and takes it, primly tearing off the wrapper and the shiny foil to reveal the chocolate inside. She tries to keep a straight face, but the whole situation is quite frankly ridiculous and she can’t help but break out into giggles again. God, they’re both dorks.

With the chocolate successfully opened, they settle back on the couch with the wine and scroll through Netflix before deciding on a re-watch of _Leap Year_ , because the Irish countryside objectively makes any film better and Scott always chuckles at Louis the suitcase. And also, true to his reputation as a walking rom-com, he does really love rom-coms.

By the time the credits roll, she’s comfortably snuggled into his side, with her legs pulled up close to her body. The blanket covering her legs has ridden up, leaving her calves exposed—it’s only September but she’s known to turn the heat in her apartment on as soon as the first leaf changes colour on the trees.

She doesn’t realize Scott’s gaze has travelled there, to the milky white scars that still litter her shins, though they’ve faded considerably over the years. He reaches out a hand and brushes over them softly, reverently.

She angles her head to look at him and her breath catches when she sees the glint of sadness in his eyes. She hates that he still blames himself for this (at least in part) and she needs him to see that she’s okay now, that it’s all over and in the past—that now, with him here, she is so happy that she could burst. She cups his cheek with one hand. “Hey,” she whispers. “We did it. We _made it_ , Scott, despite all the odds.” _Or maybe, because of them._

He nods and smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. The flash of guilt is still there, and she hates it, because they’ve talked about this in therapy so many times but he still beats himself up about it. She burrows further into his side, trying to absorb some of the hurt.

“Do you think about them a lot?” he whispers, like he’s afraid the pain will come back if he talks about it too loudly. (The leg pain does come back sometimes, he knows it and she knows it, but they manage it, and this isn’t the pain he’s talking about now.)

She hums and shakes her head. “Not that much.”

She has to admit that sometimes, it does occur to her—that they sliced open her legs twice and took out chunks of tissue—and she sits there, just tracing a finger across the scars, trying to understand why her body worked against her for so long. She knows he’ll watch her when she does it, melancholy in his gaze, but she always smiles up at him like there’s never been grief in her life and he looks dazzled.

“Doesn’t it make you sad?” he asks now, and she hates to see the hurt that flashes across his face—because part of him still thinks it’s his fault that she went under the knife in the first place.

“Sometimes,” she says, and it’s true. Sometimes she thinks back to two young kids who were faced with this thing that was so much bigger than them, that seemed impossible to conquer. She wants to go back and hug them tight and stop them from letting their fear of hurting each other get so big that they shut each other out. Sometimes she wonders what would have happened had she not gotten the surgery at all, but then she tries to think of a life without Scott and her heart physically hurts.

She pauses and reconsiders. No. No matter how painful, it’s still part of their story. “But without it, we wouldn’t be where we are. And I think _this_ ,” she gestures between them both, all-encompassing, “was worth all of it.”

Yes, sometimes the memories still sting. Sometimes she pulls a muscle in her shin and fear floods her system. But… every time she falters, Scott smiles at her so softly and reaches for her hand and her heart is so, so full that she’d do it all again just to be here with him in moments like this, where he looks at her like she’s hung the moon and embodies all the stars in the sky.

Still, there’s a reason she picked October 2 as their book release and October 5 for the tour. It’s ten years to the first surgery, then eight years to the second. It felt fitting, to take those days and fill them with new memories—ones she’ll cherish for a lifetime, with Scott firmly by her side.

“You were worth all of it,” she adds on. “You _are_ worth all of it.”

He kisses her then, with a ferocity she didn’t expect but welcomes all the same, cups her face in his hands and traces the seam of her lips with his tongue. She thinks he’s trying to pour everything he’s got into this kiss, and she responds in kind, pulling him close and clinging on for dear life.

“I love you,” he murmurs, over and over and over again, into her hair, her neck, her lips. “So fucking much.”

 

**_october 5, 2018 — abbotsford, british columbia_ **

She steals her own thirty seconds right after the Meet and Greet ends. There’s enough of a flurry of activity as the crew starts the tear-down that she can pull Scott outside, behind the arena. They’re both still buzzing with adrenaline, exhausted and overwhelmed in the very best way.

She leads him behind a half-open delivery door and into the darkened corner created by its shadow. She wastes no time with preamble and backs him firmly into the wall, latching onto him and kissing him with all she’s worth.

They’re both panting when she pulls back, hair mussed and faces flush and she thinks his eyes are as big as saucers. “What was—” he splutters, “not that I’m complaining.”

She takes both his hands and gives them a squeeze, pushing up on her tiptoes to peck his cheek. “Thank you too, for _everything_. I didn’t get to say it earlier.”

His eyes are glassy and she’s pretty sure hers are too but it’s fine because he pulls her into him and buries his face in the crook of her neck and their breathing synchs like it always does and he smells like her strawberry shampoo and his cologne—and it’s everything she’s ever wanted and so much more.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments make my day. Feel free to yell at me here, or on Tumblr, @good-things-come-in-threes, or Twitter, @_bucketofrice.


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